Kerri and I go outside, where a car is waiting to take us to the airport. Once we’re in the back seat, she reaches into her huge purse and hands me a plain black baseball cap and black cat-eye sunglasses. Last, she hands me a wig cap and a black wig. It’s a French bob with bangs.
“It’s a lace front, like we talked about,” she says. “Human hair, so it looks real.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Last month, between cartoon episodes, I cut off all my hair. I’m not even sure why. I just know that one day, I was staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, thinking that I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me. The next thing I knew, I was holding scissors and the bathroom tiles were covered with curls. I had shorn my hair so close to my head it gave not recognizing myself a whole new meaning. Then, naturally, I screamed. When my mom ran into the bathroom, she screamed too.
My Beautiful You campaign was officially out the window, right along with my career.
I haven’t really been out in public since the video leaked. I went to In-N-Out once, but the paparazzi chased me down and I almost crashed my car. We decided for this New York trip, it would be best if I go incognito. I don’t want anyone to know where I am or what I’m doing until the FCCs. It’s possible that people won’t recognize me without the wig anyway, since my hair is so short, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.
“It’s cute,” I say, examining the wig. I just wish I were wearing it for a different reason.
“Of course it’s cute,” Kerri says. “I wouldn’t have you out here looking a mess. You know me better than that.”
She winks and smiles. To be honest, I don’t understand Kerri’s unending optimism or why she hasn’t just quit yet. She’s anchored herself to a sinking ship, and for some reason, she’s decided not to abandon me.
The morning that the video leaked, Kerri practically flew to my house to do damage control, but by that point it was already too late. Someone from Paul Christopher’s team called and dropped the news that I was fired. Paul didn’t want to work with someone who had so little respect for him. I tried to explain that it was just a joke. I respected Paul more than anyone. But it didn’t matter. The video was already out, and the media was running with it.
Kerri camped out at my house and decided that the best thing would be to issue a statement with a public apology. She wanted to get the right terminology, to make sure that my words couldn’t be misconstrued. She wanted to wait at least a day in case things blew over. But Kerri wasn’t the one getting all of the hateful messages. I was. While she was busy thinking of the best way to release a statement, I locked myself in my room and recorded an apology video. Tearfully, I looked into the front-facing camera and told everyone how sorry I was.
“I have deep respect for Paul Christopher,” I said. “It was just a joke. Please, you have to understand.”
But the video just made things worse. The next thing I knew, people were re-creating it and mocking me. It was like revenge for mocking Paul Christopher. Someone even turned my apology video into a GIF, and it exploded all over Twitter. The jokes went on and on, and I read every single one.
I deleted all of my social media after that. We decided the best course of action would be no more public statements. I’d already apologized to Paul and his team, and I’d put out a video, even if it was a bad idea. I just needed to lie low for a few weeks until things died down. It soon became very clear that no one else in Hollywood would want to work with me. We couldn’t get any meetings, and no one would send Kerri scripts for me to read. The endorsement deals I had fell through. It was a nightmare.
Now it seems like we might be coming out on the other side, but I won’t know if that’s true until I talk to Gigi.
Kerri helps me put on the wig cap and wig. I run my fingers through the wig until the hair falls smooth and straight, and I slide on the sunglasses and baseball cap. The cap does not go with the black-and-white Peter Pan–collar dress that I’m wearing, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“Gigi used to do this,” I suddenly say, looking at my reflection in my front-facing camera.
Kerri tilts her head. “Used to do what?”
“She would wear disguises when we went out together because she didn’t want to be recognized. One time, when she was still living in LA, she took me to the drive-in movie theater, and she wore this long platinum wig and a huge beach hat. I mean, in all honesty, it made people look at her even more. But they never would have guessed that she was Evelyn Conaway behind the disguise.”
I laugh a little to myself at the memory. It’s ironic, really. I’ve always wanted to be more like Gigi, and this is the way in which I’m like her.
“She sounds wonderful.” Kerri’s smile is sad. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
The rest of the ride to LAX is quiet. When Kerri and I get out of the car, the paparazzi waiting outside glance at us but look away, uninterested.
“That’s good,” Kerri mumbles. “They have no idea who you are.”
She walks with me to security and stops because she can’t go any farther. I turn to her to say goodbye, and I’m surprised when she reaches out and hugs me. Kerri, who finds physical contact to be highly unprofessional. Her hug is so warm and tight, unlike the hugs I received from my parents.
“You’ve got this,” she whispers fiercely. She pulls away and stares me dead in the eyes. “Look at me. You’ve got this.”
I start sniffling and wipe my face as tears run down my cheeks.
“Thanks, Kerri.” I take a deep breath and force myself to stop crying. She gives my shoulder a tight squeeze and waits to leave until I pass through security. I turn around and wave at her. She smiles and gives a thumbs-up.
I wish I could be as positive as her. But I don’t have this. I have nothing. No fans. No career. No friends. My best friend was the one who did this to me. Looking back, maybe I should have seen it coming. The signs were all there. I was just willfully oblivious.
That might be the worst part about all of this. That, or the news I’m bringing to Gigi’s doorstep. I just hope she understands. My entire career is on the line.
I’ve survived the world hating me, but I couldn’t take it if Gigi hated me too.
Chapter Three
There’s no one waiting to pick me up at JFK.
I step outside and search for Gigi’s driver, Frank, who drives a black Mercedes. But he isn’t here. New York in the middle of August is no joke. I haven’t visited during the summer in years, and I’m clearly not used to it. It’s so hot out that heat rises off the concrete in waves. My scalp is sweating, and I can’t wait to take off this freaking hat and wig. After a few seconds in the heat, I quickly walk back inside through the revolving doors. I’d rather not melt before I even make it to Gigi’s.
“Ma’am, do you need help?”
I blink and turn to see an airport employee staring at me. She’s white and tall, with a wide and friendly smile. “Do you need to get a taxi?”
“No,” I say, instinctively pulling my baseball cap lower, pushing my sunglasses farther up on my nose. “I’m okay. Thank you.”
“All right, then.” She nods and starts to back away.
I avert my gaze and brace myself for the inevitable moment when she realizes who I am and yells at me for mocking Paul Christopher. Or worse, when she snaps a picture of me and posts it on social media.
But surprisingly, the woman turns and walks in the opposite direction, intent on helping a family that looks lost. She doesn’t even spare me a second glance.
Before I do end up being recognized, I walk back outside again, rolling my two huge suitcases behind me. I look to my left and right for Frank, but I still don’t see him. There are tons of other cars here, though. Including a grocery store truck parked all the way at the end. A short Black man with a thick mustache and bald head talks loudly on his phone, leaning against the side of the truck.
I pull out my phone to call Gigi, and that’s when I see that I’ve received two texts. One
is from my mom.
Did you land? she asks.
I text back, Yes. Going to Gigi’s now.
Her reply comes right away: Good. Stay safe. And out of trouble.
I’ve been in New York for barely twenty minutes. What trouble does she expect me to cause in that short of a window? Before I can even let her message get to me, I read the second text, from Kerri.
Hey, I tracked your flight and saw that you just landed. Was everything okay? I hope you got some sleep. Did you get picked up yet?
The flight was okay, I respond. I’m waiting for my ride now.
How long have you been waiting? Do you want me to call you a car? she asks.
I text back, No, I’m okay. Gigi’s driver is on his way. Thank you, though.
Okay, let me know when you get there?
Our exchange makes me feel a little better. Yep, will do.
I wipe sweat beads from my forehead and call Gigi again. She doesn’t answer. I sigh and call once more. This time she picks up.
“Hello?” she says.
I don’t know if it’s the heat and exhaustion or the fact that I’m so happy to finally hear her voice, but I suddenly feel like crying again.
“Hi, Gigi.” I hold back a sob. “I’m here at the airport.”
“Oh, Evie Marie,” she says, sounding relieved, “I thought it might be you calling. Is everything all right? Have you found Mr. Gabriel? He should be waiting there for you.”
“Is that your new driver?” I ask, surprised that Frank must have retired too. “What kind of car does he drive?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Gabriel is a dear friend who was kind enough to do me a favor,” she says. “I haven’t had a driver since Frank moved back to Florida. Are you waiting at arrivals? He’s hard to miss.” She pulls the phone away from her ear. “Milo, didn’t you say he was at the American Airlines terminal?” I hear a boy’s voice respond “Yeah!” in the background.
I blink, trying to process what’s happening. Milo? The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. “Gigi … who was that?”
“Oh, you remember Milo. He was here last Christmas. I’m going to call Mr. Gabriel right now and make sure he finds you. Hold tight.”
“Gigi, wait—”
But she’s already hung up.
He’s hard to miss? What is that supposed to mean? I turn my head this way and that, looking for a bright-red Mercedes instead of a black one, but I don’t see anything.
“Evie! Evie, is that you?”
I whip my head to the left and see the short, bald man who was leaning against the grocery truck walking toward me, waving his hands in my direction. Immediately, alarm bells sound in my head. I’ve been discovered, even in my carefully curated disguise. Is he paparazzi or something? He doesn’t have a camera. Maybe he’s a reporter? My eyes go to the cell phone in his right hand, and I take a step backward.
He smiles at me, relieved. “Evie! I’m your grandmother’s friend, Mr. Gabriel. I thought maybe you’d hopped into a cab. You look a lot different from the picture she showed me.”
I squint at him. Now that he’s closer, I see that his red T-shirt says GABRIEL’S GROCERIES in thick white letters.
Wait a minute. This guy is taking me to Gigi’s?
“How was your flight?” he asks, and before I can answer, he’s reaching past me for my suitcases. “Let me get those for you.”
But I move to the side, blocking him. “I don’t understand. How do you know my grandmother?”
“She buys her groceries from my store,” he says, still smiling. “She’s one of my most loyal customers.”
Without asking, he takes both of my suitcases and begins rolling them toward his truck.
I know that I’ve been avoiding Gigi, but I still trust her with my life. She wouldn’t send a serial killer to pick me up from the airport. Mr. Gabriel has to be legit.
And that’s how I find myself climbing into a grocery store delivery truck and being driven to the Upper West Side of Manhattan. As if I needed a reminder that I’ve completely fallen from grace.
Marvin Gaye blares through the truck’s speakers, and Mr. Gabriel shouts over the music so that I can hear him. I’m learning that he is a talkative man.
“Your grandmother said you went to a fancy school in Los Angeles and that you were in some popular movie,” he says. “What was it called?”
“Mind Games,” I say quietly, looking out the window.
“What?” he shouts.
“Mind Games!” I roll up my window so that the wind isn’t so loud.
“Ah, never seen it,” he says. “I’ll have to check it out. My niece, Janine, lives in Los Angeles too, you know. She writes plays. She’s working on one right now … Um, I forget what it’s called.”
“Oh, cool.” Whenever I meet people who aren’t from LA, they just assume all the people who live in LA know one another. I was well connected before my life imploded, but there’s not much I can do for his niece now, if that’s what he’s hoping for. I continue to look out the window as we drive through Times Square, hoping he stops the conversation there.
“I’ll give you her number, and you can call her.” He glances at me as he says, “You know, you really do look a lot different in person. Nothing like that picture I saw.”
I cringe, finger-combing my wig self-consciously. “It’s the hair.”
And, irony of ironies, that’s when I see it: Simone’s face on a huge billboard for Beautiful You’s newest hair-care line.
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!” I shriek.
Mr. Gabriel swerves, and the drivers around us lean on their horns.
“What? What is it?” he asks frantically.
Not only did she replace me in Paul Christopher’s movie, she stole my beauty campaign! She knew how much I wanted to work with Beautiful You, what it meant to me. How can one person be so terrible?
“I hate her,” I mumble, holding my face in my hands. I’m seething. I’m surprised steam isn’t wafting off of me. “I hate her so freaking much!”
“Who?” Mr Gabriel asks. “What are you talking about?”
I sink lower into my seat and squeeze my eyes closed, reminding myself to breathe. In and out, in and out, again and again, until my pulse returns to normal.
Poor Mr. Gabriel is still confused and alarmed. I can’t even bring myself to explain. I’ll end up spiraling out again.
“Here we are,” he eventually says, turning onto West Eighty-Seventh Street and heading toward Columbus Avenue.
He comes to a stop in front of Gigi’s town house. I look out the window and stare at it. The last time I visited, I was happy, a different person. Everything was different.
“Thank you,” I say to Mr. Gabriel, but my hand freezes on the door handle. “And, um, I’m really sorry for shouting out of nowhere and scaring you.”
He smiles warmly and waves his hand. “Please, it’s not a problem. I live in New York. I’ve seen worse.”
He helps retrieve my suitcases from the back of his truck and rolls them onto the sidewalk. I stand beside them and thank him again.
“Don’t worry about it. Anything to help your grandmother,” he says. “You just take down my niece’s number and promise to give her a call one of these days.”
“I don’t really know if that’s a good idea…” Doesn’t he know what I’ve done? I’m sure his niece does not want me calling her, especially if she’s trying to break into the industry.
“Nonsense! You take her number down right now.”
He actually stands there and waits as I enter his niece’s number into my phone before quickly hopping into his truck and driving away.
And then I’m alone again.
Gigi’s neighborhood is so quiet. Beautiful and affluent, but mostly quiet. I guess that’s why she wanted to move here.
I always try to look my best, but as a rule, I want to look spotless when I see Gigi. I try to smooth out my wrinkled dress, but it’s no use. I finger-comb my wig’s bangs again and climb
Gigi’s front steps, dragging my suitcases behind me and hoping for the best.
I ring the buzzer, and there’s the sound of feet shuffling down the hallway. After a moment, where I assume Gigi is peeking through her peephole, the door opens, and she appears.
She’s dressed in a white linen suit, wearing a pearl necklace with pearl earrings to match. It looks like she’s ready for a fancy evening out. But she’s not. Gigi never leaves her house.
I take off my sunglasses, and I can barely finish saying, “Hi, Gigi—” before she pulls me inside and wraps me in the tightest hug of my life. Suddenly, I’m a little kid again, coming to spend the day with her, and I feel a little less alone. I’ve missed her.
“I was so worried about you,” she says when she pulls away. “When you said you couldn’t find Mr. Gabriel, I was afraid that he accidentally went to LaGuardia.”
Even when frantic, Gigi somehow manages to look composed and pristine. Her hair is gray now, but it’s still thick and freshly curled. She smells like Chanel No. 5 and … fried chicken? Actually, it smells like fried chicken all over.
“Come, come,” she says, motioning for me to leave my suitcases in the foyer. I slide off my platform sandals and leave them at the door before I follow her down the hall to the sitting room. I step gingerly onto her cream-colored carpet, and she sits down on her cream love seat, patting the empty space beside her. Everything in Gigi’s house is cream, from the furniture to the walls. She says it makes her feel calm. Even her two Persian cats, Mark Antony and Cleo, are sort of cream-colored. They’re glaring at me from across the room as we speak.
“I’m glad to know that your phone is working,” Gigi says, eyeing me. “I haven’t heard from you in quite some time.”
“I know.” I look down, a wave of shame rising up inside. “I’m sorry.”
She leans closer and quietly says, “How have you been? How are you feeling?”
“Not great.” I look back up at her calm face, and she looks so sad. Sad for me.
“I know you’ve had a rough time, baby. But it won’t be like this forever. This too shall pass, as they say.” She gently puts her hand on my cheek and reaches up to smooth my bangs aside. “So this is what you’ve gone and done to your hair? It’s not as bad as your mother made it sound.”
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